Spirit on the Wind

He wore a breastplate of buffalo bone and sinew across his bare chest.  He had muscles...everywhere. His chest, his biceps, his lean body was nothing but muscle. His strong fingers gently touched her forehead as softly as the gentle words he spoke.

Clara didn’t flinch a muscle or bat an eye. She searched his face and saw that he had the eyes of one who meant her no harm. They looked into each other’s eyes for a very long moment. Clara tried to speak, but the words would not come. She felt him take her right hand in his and she trembled. It was not fear that she felt. There was an energy, a power, a warmth from his hand.

She looked at her surroundings. She was on a soft bed of furs with a wool blanket of many colors and strange designs covering her naked body. She smelled the fire burning in the pit in the middle of the earthen floor. A sage candle was burning in a clay pot next to her bed, giving off what little light there was.

The walls of the structure came together in a circle. They were made of stone slabs that had been securely placed on top of each other. Many painted masks hung on the walls. A mandala made of buffalo hide and strips of fur hung like a shield next to the doorway. It was a ceremonial kiva, but she had no way of knowing about the Indian way of life. After all, she was a white girl.

The stranger in front of her stared at her face. He kept speaking softly. She wanted so much to understand his words.

Tears filled Clara’s eyes as she felt the long arms of the native man embrace her. He spoke softly in her ear. He ran his fingers through her golden hair. She trembled. She tried to speak, but her voice was silent. She felt the Indian’s breath on her hair. He embraced her with the warmth of a long-lost friend. She broke down and sobbed with all her heart.

Something terrible had happened to her. Clara could see the bruises on her arms, and her fingers bore cuts that were healing. Her jaw hurt extremely, as it had been dislocated. Her lips were swollen, and so were her eyes.

Yet this man, whose arms she was in, seemed to feel her pain. Who was he? Where did he come from? She looked into his eyes, and thought she had seen the eyes of the eagle that she had come to know as her friend. She knew she looked a disheveled sight, yet he was there for her.  For that reason alone, she felt safe.

In the days that passed, Clara slowly gained her strength. The swelling faded from her face, and her hands began to heal and become more limber. Her voice started to come back—a whisper at first, and then a hoarse sound. Her damaged vocal cords were still painful. The herb tea Holy One gave her seemed to soothe it better every time she sipped.